


Human Nature

by Syrenslure



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrenslure/pseuds/Syrenslure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darla adjusts to life before death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Nature

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to a challnge on the YGTS? Details to follow.
> 
> Timeline and Spoilers: Alternate Universe that verges off before the end of The Trial. Darla is not revamped.

Even the air seemed still and heavy behind the closed door and tightly drawn drapes. It was as if someone was trying to create a sanctuary - a deep cave - or a tomb. Nothing in the sparsely furnished room seemed to belie this impression. Even the bedspread, on which the room's sole occupant lay, seemed undisturbed by her presence. She lay quietly on top of the bed, as if in repose. Her fingers were laced across her stomach and she was still. Only the rise and fall of her chest and the brightness of her open eyes indicated that she was still of this world.

Darla shifted a bit on the bed and glanced at the glowing numbers of the bedside clock. Her lips pursed in a look of disgust and she fought against the urge to throw the clock against the far wall to experience the resounding crash of destruction. However, she was afraid that she would not stop there, would not stop at all, until the room contained only shambles and splinters, anointed by bits of cotton bedding that she would be tempted to set ablaze.

She felt like a prisoner, locked in the padded luxury of a hotel room cell being monitored on a demented suicide watch. It was ironic to her, but without satisfaction, because she was dead already. Twice, thrice over - she had lost count. A dead man walking, in prison parlance, she was waiting on death row, all appeals exhausted.

Mortality was not a concept that she was at peace with, despite having experienced death and unlife before. Death, she understood, knew intimately; even knew that her own was coming, and soon. However, the idea of passing forever from this world, the inevitable and immanent shuffling off of this mortal coil, and her helplessness, in the face of it, was untenable.

It seemed that this powerlessness had transferred to all areas of her existence. Even now, she could feel her jailers scurrying around, outside her room, and knew that her time of solitude was waning short. She would be expected to present herself for her daily constitutional - to eat, to drink, to socialize, and present some evidence that she was still alive. She would not be allowed to fade gently into that good night.

She sighed and roused herself to perform her ablutions. She would seek out Wesley and perform her daily penance. He was the least objectionable of her companions. There was something of a scarred soul in him that she could almost relate to. It made him almost tolerable.

Better to seek her own company, than to wait for Angel to seek her out. He had been her son, her lover, her chosen consort, and once, even her murderer. Now he wore his guilt like a shroud, so unlike the man that she had known, and at once the man who promised and failed to save her. Yet, she knew it was for him that she faced this sentence.

He had shown her the weight of her soul, and given her the choice - but it was no choice at all. Angel had risked his existence to seek her pardon. The man, from whom she had once stolen his mortality, had convinced her to face hers. Even when he had learned of Wolfram and hart's plans, of Dru, She had been tempted to run to them and accept.

Oh, but she had been angry. She was ready to die, but wanted it to be on her terms, her choice. It would not be part of a cosmic joke perpetrated upon her by puppeteers in a high-rise building. They had inadvertently, along with Angel, provided her with the will to live.

"You have another chance, one that so many would give anything for, and you are willing to throw it all away," Angel had said.

"A chance for what, Angel? I am dying. This is the end - no going back, no hearts and flowers, other than those that will be on my grave."

"You can fight. You can be a part of something greater than yourself, for once. You can join me - us - and do something worthwhile, something other that kill and destroy, something good."

"Why? Should I be afraid for my immortal soul? Should I play at obeisance, to whatever gods may be listening, in the hopes that I'll be redeemed? That argument didn't work on me the first time around, and I think that after 400 years as a demon it's a little late to worry. Don't you?"

"Your life is what you make of it. You can choose to wallow in the past, or do something for the future, however long or short it should be."

"And what do you propose that I do? I'm only human after all." her laugh had a sharp and bitter edge to it. "I've been dead for over 400 years, I don't exactly have any marketable job skills." She smiled wryly, "Well, none that I could put on a resume, in any case." She sobered a little as she remembered just how those job skills got her into her current predicament.

In the end, she had acquiesced and joined his ragtag band of misfits. However, she refused to be a part of his crusade. She was not one of his naive children, and was too old to believe in fairy tales in which good triumphed over evil.

There was a bit of this darkness too, in the watcher. "An old soul," she thought ironically. So, she spent her time with him each day. A necessary penance that was better that the alternatives, or, at least, a lesser evil. Besides, it helped her to pass the time.

Mostly, he asked her questions, listening intently as she relayed stories of her life and unlife. She knew that he recorded this information diligently into one of his many bound journals. Once a watcher, always a watcher. No one knew better that her how old habits died hard.

She didn't much mind. She had no modesty left, and nothing to hide. She had always been a very practical woman.

Occasionally, she would offer tidbits of information on whatever subject Wesley was currently working. She enjoyed seeing him lose himself in the cases, in a moment beyond himself. They were like little puzzles. She had knowledge and almost half a millennium of experience. She did not mind helping obliquely, placing a piece here or there, as long as she could maintain her illusion of isolation.

Wesley always took her comments in the spirit in which they were intended. He asked for nothing more, unlike Angel, and expected nothing less, unlike the others. She had no contract or obligation to help, and no place in the greater scheme of things. She liked it that way.

As she entered the kitchen and began to gather tray of sandwiches and tea, she wondered what today would bring, but it was only a passing thought. This chore was a practical one. Wesley often forgot to eat while he was working, and it gave her something to do with her hands and eyes while she talked. It also convinced the others that she was being dutiful and not neglecting herself, even if it was the only meal she ate each day.

It was a grudging compliance. The demands of this, her human body, were still foreign to her after so long. Occasionally, she would still reach for the chilled containers of pig's blood that Angel kept in the refrigerator, before she realized what she was doing and corrected herself. She wasn't sure what disgusted her more - the idea of drinking that slop, or that she no longer had a need to.

Continuing the motions of her day, she took the tray and knocked on Wesley's door. He offered a quiet smile and a soft hello, and closed the book he was reading. His desk held it's usual clutter, but was otherwise clear. There were no active cases; he had been waiting for her.

They ate and drank in relative silence, but it was companionable, almost comfortable. Empty chatter didn't suit her. As they finished their meal, Wesley cradled his teacup in his large hands and looked pensively into its surface.

She waited for him to gather his thoughts and address what was on his mind.

His question, when it came, startled her.

"How do you feel about dying?" He watched her and waited for her answer.

"How should I feel? I'm dying."

"That's not an answer."

"No," she agreed, "I don't suppose it is."

Wesley waited.

"Did you know that there is a bible in my room? In fact, I'd wager that there are quite a few of them around this place. It used to be a hotel."

Wesley just nodded and sipped his tea.

"I've been reading it. There isn't much else to do lately."

She paused as if in thought and silence filled the spaces between them.

"They call prostitution 'one of the oldest professions in the world'. Women and sex - blamed for the downfall of civilization - all the way back to the Garden of Eden. Ironic isn't it? For four hundred years I was a vicious killer who brought gruesome death to everyone I met, and I am dying because centuries ago, I was a whore."

"What do you mean?"

"I have syphilis. I am dying from a disease I contracted as a whore, lifetimes ago."

"I had assumed it was something mystical. They told you that you were dying? From syphilis?"

She nodded her assent and shrugged fatalistically.

"Are you sure? " Wesley paused to gather his thoughts. "Syphilis isn't usually fatal, these days. Most of the time, it is treated with antibiotics. You don't seem blind, paralyzed, or insane - at least not relatively so. The virus sometimes damages the heart, but you haven't complained of weakness, or shortness of breath." he looked at her inquiringly.

"No, but I saw the records. Why would those bastards lie?"

"Well, we do know that they tried to have you turned. Bringing in Drusilla rather than a random vamp, suggests that it was personal. They were also prepared for Angel, and it is my theory that he was supposed to be there. They meant to demoralize him by having him think that he failed to save you. Besides, you know that your vampire self would not have given up trying to possess him." He spoke calmly and without judgment.

"Along the same lines, they had to make sure you wouldn't resist: like a lamb drawn to the slaughter. It would also be another way in which Angel had failed. If you thought you were already dying, especially since you had never really faced mortality, then you would be easier to manipulate." Wesley cleared his throat and looked at Darla, then down at his desk. "This is all speculation of course."

"How do we, how do *I* find out?"

"I suppose we need to get you to a doctor. Almost anyone could order the test, and prescribe treatment, if necessary."

"Those bastards!" she screamed and stood up, sweeping her arms along his desk and knocking the items nearest her to the floor in a large crash.

He moved around the desk and against his best interests, tried to calm the angry woman in front of him.

Angel ran to the doorway at the crash, but Wesley shook his head, letting the vampire know that he had it under control. Darla raged about the room. She wanted to kill something, someone. Angel started to ignore him and step into the room, when Darla turned and started to beat on Wesley's chest. Wesley slumped some at the impact, but caught Darla up in his arms. He glared at Angel until the other man left him to handle it.

She struggled against him, and still he held on, until all of the energy seemed to fade from her. She sobbed once and then clung to him.

When she had calmed, she didn't move away, but lifted her chin to look into his eyes. "How do you deal with it?"

"I just do. We just do, because it is who we are."

"I'm a whore."

"Yes, well Cordelia's a cheerleader, trying to be an actress. Angel is a vampire with a soul, and I'm a watcher who was fired and now works for a vampire. None of us are perfect." Wesley quirked his lips into a wry half smile.

Darla looks back at him incredulously. "So it's that easy, huh? Just fight the good fight?"

"No, it's not easy. It's the hardest thing you'll ever do. That's why we do it."

She nodded, finally beginning to understand.

End Notes:

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://panthermoon.com/dreaming/viewstory.php?sid=20>  


**Author's Note:**

> YGTS? Challenge #203 : Proposed by Storm.  
>  "I would like a story where Darla manages to stay human in Season 2 and ultimately joins Angel Investigations. Up to you whether you explain how she gets away, but she must take a positive decision to fight the good fight and it must be for her own sake or because its the right thing to do, not because she's in love with anyone. If you want to put Darla in a relationship you can, but it mustn't be the main point of the story and just to make things harder, any Darla relationship must be het and cannot be with Angel, Lindsay or Spike. The story must show Darla dealing with her new role (human, no special powers but part of AI). Apocalyptic good versus evil battles would be a plus.


End file.
